And despite what I'm about to say, I actually had a bloody good time.
By the time I'd got on the RedJet across to West Cowes on Friday lunchtime, I was singing The White Stripes' Seven Nation Army as if I was in Ukraine supporting our boys, not knowing the disappointment that would follow come Sunday night. But this isn't about football , and I suppose there's a silver lining from that result, knowing we now have another reason to hate Ashley Cole.
Staying in a vintage 1950s American air-streamer caravan, 'Team Joice' headed into the festival via Gate A6 and into the thick of it. My pals Monsta, otherwise known as song-writers Rocky and Rufio, were DJing later, so we headed to their stage to chat shop backstage as we'd arrived an hour before the actual festival had properly opened - walking through an empty festival is a strange experience, by the way.
The festival has a distinct feel of nostalgia about it, yet once you step away from the main stage, you realise just how prominent urban acts are nowadays at these type of things compared to when I first started going to 'rock festivals' seven years ago. The crowd may have been made up of 90% middle-class white folk, but the across the stages, the acts were all about multiculturalism.
Even better, unlike the festivals of old, it was all about the girls this weekend. DJ Nikki Beatnik warmed up the crowd like a bloody scorching jacket potato for Kelis, dressed as if a nu-rave Cleopatra, who enthralled the crowd by playing the drums during her hit single Bounce. Later on, I saw the biggest gaggle of fans stand behind the entrance to The Big Top with the hope of grabbing Lana Del Ray for an autograph and a photograph. Girl power.
Whilst I'm a bit of a Sherbet Dip Dab and love checking out the wide range of variety that modern-day festivals offer, I'm also a slave to the world of rock'n'roll. I loved seeing Best Coast headline The Garden Stage on Friday night, singing all the lyrics to each song very loudly in various friends ears, who all looked a bit bemused by how I excited I was. Thanks to some free drinks at the Rayban Lounge, another rock'n'roll affair (surrounded by vintage vinyl and treated to an impromptu DJ set from Madness front-man Suggs), everyone forgave me pretty swiftly.
The second day of a festival is always the best - you're in full-swing now, waking up in the dirt, hungover, but knowing that refreshments and hot showers were being provided courtesy of Carling's Refresh Rooms, we headed over there for to join punters lapping up Carling's new Zest flavour beers whilst we could hear a mental crowd getting their dance on to Labrinth and Tinie Tempah (both of whom performed their hit duet without each other, despite playing an hour apart).
Time flies when you're having fun, and no more fun was had than watching Professor Green smash the shit out of The Big Top on Saturday night. With queues outside the full-capacity tent creating an extended perimeter for the performance, it's been a while since I saw a crowd go in so hard and go off so frequently. Even his missus Millie was going ape for it.
Sunday allowed the festival to return to what it's best at. Middled-aged men reprising their roles as Rock Gods. Steve Hackett played to about ten people on the main stage, whilst Noel Gallagher and his High Flying Birds bored people to death with his solo stuff so much he was forced to pull out the Oasis numbers once again just in-case he was running the risk of being accused of promoting mass-suicide.
The otherwise eclectic Big Top saw a whole host of novelty acts appear on the final day, much to the bemusement of the young fans, angry that they were being subjected to Ash and a band that weren't even funny the first time round, The Darkness. I imagine thousands of young teenagers have all put down their instruments they're learning and applied for jobs at banks on Monday morning, wondering why a band so irrelevant to anything or anyone anymore could be given such a prime slot at such a big event.
Of course, if you want things done properly, you have to turn to the Americans. Bruce Stringsteen and The E Street Band played for two and a half hours. Hit after hit, if you're a fan , were played, much to the delight of all the dads. I'd say my favourite bit of his set wasn't musical, but when he refused to finish until fireworks were set off high into the sky, signalling both the end of the set and also the festival, meaning I could drag myself through the mud (via the brilliant Beatles themed Octopus Cafe at the ferry port) and back into my nice warm bed back home in London, broken, with the realisation that I'm actually a right miserable old sod.
See you next year.